


Similarities

by silverstardust



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accidental Self-Harm, Hemophobia, Mentions of Self-hatred, Meulin Leijon (mentioned) - Freeform, Minor The Disciple/The Signless, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Porrim Maryam (mentioned) - Freeform, Porrim Maryam/Kankri Vantas Moirallegiance, The Disciple (mentioned) - Freeform, The Dolorosa (Mentioned) - Freeform, The Psiionic/The Signless Moirallegiance, The Psiioniic (Mentioned) - Freeform, slight body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11320230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverstardust/pseuds/silverstardust
Summary: Your eye does not work as well as it should. (They stuck a metal pole through it.) You can barely see through it, you may as well be (blinded you- tried to RIP IT FROM ITS SOCKET) legally blind through it.-You hate being touched without permission. You don't know why (she would touch you without consent you were so young and she was so old-) and you apologize to your moirail over and over, but no Psii, I'm sorry, just please don't touch my face.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ==> Kankri: Study your body.

Your right eye does not work as well as it should. You can barely see out of it, you may as well be legally blind in that eye. You do not know why it doesn't work. You don't know how it was missed in the grub caverns, either, when you received bodily exams as a grub. But it was, you suppose. A white film covers your iris, irreparable.

_(They stuck a metal pole through it, blinded you, tried to rip your eye from its socket and laughed at your screams-)_

Your shoulders hurt sometimes. To the point where you can't even lift your arms without pain. Porrim has to help you dress yourself those days, help you around your hive and with anything those days, when you're reduced to tears by even the simplest of nudges to your shoulder blade. Multiple exams from medicullers from when you were a wriggler say that your muscles are fine, and so are your joints and bones. They did not know why your shoulders hurt so, or why they hurt so badly.

_(They left you to hang by your wrists in the sun, you arms were ripped from their joints by those FUCKING CHAINS-)_

You have constant pains in your wrists. You've never hurt them before, and you know it's not from writing, because they began to hurt long before you knew how to write. it's not arthritis, the medicullers would say, your bones are healthy and strong. But it hurts, oh god, it hurts, it burns, your very skin dries and BLACKENS and peels from your wrists as if you were put into burning chains for hours and you have to wrap bandages so tightly around your wrists so the pain lessens.

(You can feel the chains in your sleep, when you dream. You try so hard to remove them in your half-asleep state, you claw and scratch at your skin until you bleed, bleed bright disgusting awful mutant red every, it's horrible, it's vile, so wrong, it shouldn't exist-)

(Proud. You're supposed to be proud of your blood. It's such a pretty color, Porrim says, if your ancestor can be proud of it, so can you.)

_(Hide it, hide it always, don't let them see, don't blush, don't cry, don't fall, THEY'LL KILL YOU)_

(But it's so... disgusting. You're sorry, Porrim, you're trying, really. But it's so hard.)

Over your bloodpusher is a scar (A skin blemish? A hatch-mark?) so much lighter than your pale, pupa grey skin, It's white, but the skin is just as soft as anywhere else on your body. You don't even know what to think about, it looks as if it should be the color of your blood, oozing, as if you were shot.

_(They shot you down like a barkbeast.)_

Your bloodpusher hurts. It hurts for something, it yearns, as if it has known, has experienced something you never have. A yearning (for love? a lusus, a friend, who-) that brings a physical ache to your bloodpusher.

_(You knew a love that transcended all definitions, all quadrants. She was your matesprit, your moirail, kismesis, auspice, all in one she was your everything and they made her WATCH YOU DIE, TIED DOWN LIKE A BARKBEAST, UTTERLY HELPLESS AND IN PAIN, YOUR BELOVED, YOUR DISCIPLE-)_

(You think Meulin is pretty. You like her compassion.)

(She listens to you too.)

_(She always has. She always will.)_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ==> Signless: Muse to yourself.

You flinch when their hands are cold, even when you're expecting their touch. You can't be touched, you have to be the one to touch. You think it's because of your blood, the temperature at which it flows inside your body. Compared to your own, burning heat, everyone has at least the slightest chill to you.

_(She would touch you without permission, her indigo blood was as cold as ice)_

You've apologized to Psii, your moirail, multiple times over. You can pap him all he needs, without issue, it comes naturally, even, but the second he touches your face, you become unglued. It has the opposite effect of what it should. It should calm you down, relax you, help you feel comfortable. Not make you panic, make you fear and cry, but it does. Even your own mother, who's cared for you all of your life, since she carried you out of the grub caverns, can not tell you why it makes you so. Her only guess is your mutation.

_(She'd ring that silver bell, and you'd stiffen at the sound- she used voodoo to make you scared of it- and when you demanded your BASIC RIGHTS she would pap you, would touch you, pile you- you were so young, she was so old-)_

You aren't scared of any caste, which doesn't make sense. Logically, due to your blood, you should be scared of all of them. Especially those who make up the "highblood" caste, yet, if anything, certain colors make you long for something.

_(Why would you be scared of them? Cronus and Kurloz are your friends. Meenah less, but still. And you like talking with Aranea and Horuss.)_

Marks litter the inside of your legs. Some are circular, some are perfect lines, others are jagged like they were done with claws. You feel a sense of desperation, of self-hatred, of shame, when you see them. They look like white scars, but the skin is soft there, (or as soft as it can be with your dry calloused skin) so you don't know where they're from.

_(If you were hurt, she wouldn't lock you in your respite block at night, she'd leave it unlocked so you could go to the bathroom in case they bled in your sleep again. You took whatever little freedom you could get.)_

_(Like now. You're free. No culler. Just friends.)_

_(No real reason to be scared. Freedom, you like that.)_

_(You want to be free, you want to stay here, who cares what others think, no one can control you here.)_

(You just want to be treated as an equal in society. To be normal.)


End file.
